time
by trombonechick
Summary: after sucre's gone, michael gets a new cellmate. not haywire, but someone equally unstable. but, could he end up being helpful? may end up being MiSa, but it's not my first priority. rating may change. warning: mentions of suicide and selfinjury
1. Prologue

Prologue

Once again I pulled down the sleeves of my shirt to cover my forearms. What was once my only means of escape was now nothing but a mass of scars and memories. After one last breath and a shove from the CO, I stepped out of the doors and into the light. As the CO cuffed my hands, I stared at the sign over the place I had called home for several months. The word_ Asylum_ stared down at me.

Most people find the "Wack Shack" to be a scary place. For me, however, I find solace there. The word _asylum _means _sanctuary._ The asylum has kept me safe, not only from the other inmates, but from myself as well.

I'm not all right. If I were, I wouldn't be in here. But that's okay. I'll cope with it for now. Someday I'll be out of here, one way or another.

Back into my cell now, my familiar bunk, with my old cellmate Dave, soon to be released on parole. Then someone else will replace him, another new guy, probably someone young and naïve. But none are younger than me.


	2. Chapter 2

I forgot to add a disclaimer last chapter, so here it is.

Disclaimer: it's not mine.

"Open on forty!" said officer Bellick. The gate opened and both men inside sat up. "Broderick!" said the CO, "move it!" Quickly, Dave gathered his things and stood. Just before he left the cell, he turned back to his cellmate.

"Take care of yourself, kid," he said.

"You too, Dave," the younger man replied.

"All right, enough with the tearful goodbyes, cons," Bellick barked. He and Dave left the cell. "Close on forty!"

Later that night

The gate buzzed open for the second time that day. "Hey, Runt! Found you a new cellie. You boys play nice now."

A shorter man, probably Mexican or Puerto Rican, walked in and put his stuff on Dave's old bunk.

"Hey," he said. "I'm-"

"Fernando Sucre," said Runt. "I know."

"And you are…" Sucre asked.

"They call me Runt," said Runt.

Several Weeks Later

Runt sat alone in his cell, Sucre being off at his conjugal. Lying on his bunk, he studied the bottom of the bunk above him. Suddenly, something caught his eye- A piece of metal, bent or broken away from the rest of the frame. The sharp edge gleamed in the dim light, calling to him. Slowly, he stood, moving to the foot of the bed. For the first time since he had returned to Gen. Pop., he rolled up the long sleeves of his shirt and ran the fingers of his right hand slowly over the dozens of scars on his left forearm. His right arm bore scars as well, though most of those were located on the wrist, near the pulse point. It was that spot that he held up against the sharp piece of metal, his savior, his killer. Closing his eyes, he swiped his wrist across the edge once, as though testing it. He examined the fresh wound and let out a shaky breath as the blood began to ooze out.

Again and again he repeated the process, cutting deeper and harder every time. Eventually his right arm was a bloody mess, and Runt light-headed and ill from loss of blood. Unheeding, he simply moved on to his left.

Finally, having not the energy to continue, he knelt on the floor and waited for sweet darkness to take him.

This is my first Prison Break story. I welcome any comments or suggestions. Please review. Positive or negative, I don't care. If I get enough reviews I'll try and put up the next chapter tonight or tomorrow.


	3. Flashback 1: Descent

A/N: this chapter will basically illustrate how "Runt"(he will get a real name eventually) came to be the way he is. Later I will also tell why he is in Fox River.

As the darkness enveloped him in its cold embrace, he finally let loose the angry devastation bottled inside him. Bitter sobs racked his emaciated frame as the results of his actions hit him full on. Screaming wordlessly, he attacked the stone wall next to him. Wordless yells ripped from his throat as he slammed his fist into the stone until his flesh was split and pouring blood, his bones smashed, blood on the walls and the floor and his clothes and blood everywhere but still not enough.

Sins have been committed, and a blood sacrifice must be offered for absolution.

Gleaming knife, pale skin. Clash in painful retribution. Then bloody knife, gleams no longer silver but red. Bloody skin stained crimson.

But washed white mind, with red blood.


End file.
